


stellar flare

by owlsareheadturners



Series: planetary motion [1]
Category: Ginga Eiyuu Densetsu | Legend of the Galactic Heroes
Genre: Die Neue These, Gratuitous Smut, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, There is no plot, bridge sex, i haven't finished the anime yet and the horny has already caught up to me, voice suppression kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:20:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26473270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlsareheadturners/pseuds/owlsareheadturners
Summary: After a sustained bout of action and drama, Yang finally gets some peace and quiet on the bridge of theHyperion. (Not.)
Relationships: Walter von Schenkopp/Yang Wenli
Series: planetary motion [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1972393
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	stellar flare

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I spent so much time poring over the official artbook to research a smut fic... Character name romanisations follow the anime.

**13FB09-2144** **_Hyperion._ ** **3.45 A.M. Alliance Standard Time.**

The vast expanse of the ship’s bridge is stunningly quiet, the crew having finished off the day’s responsibilities and gone to rest. Only at this rare hour is the ship almost completely quiet, soothed of its normal chatter and bustle, and even the more tenacious night owls have been persuaded to retire, exhausted from hours of hard work. 

Vice Admiral Yang Wen-li has his feet up on the railing, staring out at the vast sea of stars before him. As the _Hyperion_ continues its smooth passage through space, he lets his eyelids slide closed, taking a moment to breathe deeply in, then exhales in a sigh. Just a while ago he’d dismissed the Captain currently on duty and told the poor man to go get some much-needed sleep while Yang himself took over for a bit. He’d needed the peace and quiet desperately anyway. Precious is the day that they’re not embroiled in some sort of emergency or another, hapless string puppets at the mercy of the whims and fancies of _democracy_. He snorts despite himself. The FPA’s so-called government disgraces the word. 

“Still up, Admiral?” The voice comes from just behind him—he hadn’t heard the approaching footsteps, but the voice is almost reassuringly familiar despite his better reason, the buttery smooth purr of it like the predatory rumble of a panther. 

“I could say the same of you, Commodore.” Yang cranes his neck to get a good look. Von Schönkopf is dressed only in shorts and a singlet that clings to the contours of his chest and stomach and puts his muscled arms on unabashed display. 

Von Schönkopf is unfazed, his hand going to rub the back of his head in mock bemusement. “Nothing like a little exercise to keep you in shape every now and then, Admiral.” 

“It’s 4 in the morning, Commodore,” Yang replies, his usual patient smile plastered on his face. 

Von Schönkopf chuckles, throwing his arms up in a gesture of surrender. “Alright, you got me, O Mighty Admiral.” 

“What a musclehead.” Yang’s lips can’t help but lift a little at the corners. 

“And you, Admiral, are an insufferable workaholic.” Von Schönkopf puts his hands on the back of Yang’s chair, leans in a little, and frowns when he sees the darkened panels of the ship’s main display.

“What’s this? No work for our Admiral tonight?” 

“Just admiring the view, Commodore. Surely I’m allowed to do that once in a while.” Yang gestures vaguely to the glittering void beyond the glass. 

To a planet-bound citizen the view would be endlessly breathtaking, and Yang remembers Julian standing for what seemed like hours on end on the bridge when he’d first come aboard the Hyperion, just staring and staring. But having grown up amongst the stars, even the grand glowing rivers of galaxies and the kaleidoscopic colours of giant gas clouds had never inspired the same wonder within him, no matter how much he’d tried to imagine it. 

Von Schönkopf perches on the bridge railing beside him, staring out as Yang has, and frowns. “I can’t imagine you’d be much interested in _that_ , Admiral.” 

“And why not?” 

Von Schönkopf hums in his throat. “Well, it’d be like a planetbound taking interest in a field of grass. This stuff’s old to you.” 

When Yang doesn’t reply, von Schönkopf leans in to tease Yang’s chin upwards with a forefinger so that Yang is forced to stare into his rich brown eyes. “I’m right, aren’t I, Admiral?” he murmurs softly. “You’ve been lost in space, cut adrift for too long.”

Yang lowers his gaze slowly. “Maybe I have.” 

Von Schönkopf laughs. “Then perhaps you ought to seriously reconsider my proposal, for the good of the FPA—no, for all of humanity. You want this war to end, don’t you? For the sake of the next generation and all the generations after that. For _Julian_.” 

Yang’s eyes flick up sharply to meet his. “That’s a low blow, Commodore, and you know it.” 

“Am I wrong, though?” 

“Go to _bed_ , Schönkopf.”

“Not if I don’t take you along with me—and don’t even _think_ about protesting. You’re worn out, and you’re the only one on this ship that refuses to acknowledge it.” Von Schönkopf’s fingers slide past his throat to gently massage his shoulder, and Yang winces as the muscle seizes up beneath von Schönkopf’s touch. “Schönkopf, that hurts— _ow_ —”

“It _hurts_ , Admiral, because you haven’t gotten a wink of sleep in the past three days. You’re wound up so tight it pains me to watch. And besides,” von Schonköpf murmurs, his hand slipping into Yang’s collar to loosen his cravat, “That also means you haven’t been spending any time with me.” The words are both a threat and a promise, and Yang shivers in the stillness.

Von Schönkopf’s fingers pull away, taking his cravat with them. There’s a whoosh of air as the material leaves his skin and arcs away from him like a white flag. “Hands or eyes, Admiral?”

“Schönkopf—”

“Eyes it is.” Before he can even process what’s going on his vision is a field of white—von Schönkopf has deftly tied the cravat around his eyes and is unzipping his overcoat, turning Yang’s arms firmly but gently out of the sleeves. Yang feels almost naked in his thin grey uniform shirt, his neck conspicuously bare. He tries to put on his best Admiral Voice. 

“And just _what_ do you think you’re doing, Commodore?” 

In response, von Schönkopf merely gets one arm under Yang’s knees and the other around his back, and lifts him bodily from his seat. “Why, carting you off to bed, Admiral.” 

“Oh.” Yang considers this for a moment, his head resting against von Schönkopf’s warm chest. “That’s all well and good, Commodore—in that case, carry on. But before that, if you would be so kind as to grant me a favour…?”

“Certainly, Admiral.” The amusement is clear in von Schönkopf’s voice. “What is it you desire?”

“Would you give me a kiss, Schönkopf? Right here?” Yang drags an index finger slowly across his bottom lip. 

Von Schönkopf’s easy manner melts away, and his body stiffens against Yang’s. “I’m… not sure that’s entirely advisable, Admiral.”

“And whyever not?” Yang teases, refusing to let him off.

“Come on, Admiral… Surely a master tactician such as you would know full well.” Schönkopf’s voice is equal parts strained and resigned. “If I kiss you right now, I might not be able to control myself.”

Yang smiles. “Well then, Commodore; I think I’ll take that risk.”

* * *

Yang’s overcoat, shirt and trousers lie in discarded heaps on the bridge’s floor, and his beret has since rolled away and skittered off somewhere into the shadows. Von Schönkopf has him bent over the railing of the deck, trailing searing kisses down the nape of his neck, his hands all over Yang’s body. A whimper escapes Yang’s lips as von Schönkopf licks a hot wet stripe into the hollow of his collarbone.

“Schönkopf— _ah_ , Schön—”

“Shhh, Admiral.” Von Schönkopf stops kissing him for long enough to hum amusement into his ear. “I turned on the ship’s intercom just now, so be quiet unless you want the whole ship to hear you moaning.” 

Yang’s eyes widen beneath the cravat. “You _wouldn’t_ —” His protest is cut off again as von Schönkopf slips his right hand into Yang’s underwear to stroke his erection, and he’s reduced to making a sort of strangled sob to keep from moaning out loud.

“Do you doubt me, Admiral? Or perhaps you’d like to put my words to the test—go on, I’m sure young Julian would love to hear you _screaming_ my name—”

Yang flushes with shame under his blindfold—there’s no way to tell whether von Schönkopf is bluffing or not, but Yang wouldn’t put it past him: in any case, the last thing he wanted was for his 15-year-old protégé to know what he sounded like at von Schönkopf’s absolute mercy, blindfolded, practically naked, and begging for release.

“Come, let’s get this off you too, Admiral—you’re really running out of space in there, aren’t you; look at how _hard_ you’ve gotten—” von Schönkopf hisses into his ear, voice absolutely _filthy_ , and it sends a full-body shiver shuddering through him, his fingertips tingling against the cold metal of the railing as he grips it for support, his nails going white with pressure. His breaths are uneven gasps now as he tries to keep his own voice under control, nasal whimpers escaping him on every exhale. 

Von Schönkopf hooks his thumbs into the waistband of Yang’s underwear, drags it torturously down his hips and thighs, and Yang makes small, involuntary, jerking moans as the material trails across his sensitive skin. 

“Lift your leg up, Admiral; there we go—” von Schönkopf slips a large hand under the arch of Yang’s right foot and guides it gently into the air so he can get Yang’s underwear off completely. The next thing Yang feels is von Schönkopf’s warm breath on his inner thigh, and he feels himself going weak at the knees. 

“Now tell me, Admiral,” von Schönkopf purrs low and dangerous, lips brushing against his skin, “Would you like me to suck you senseless, or fuck you senseless?”

Despite himself, Yang manages a breathy laugh. “That’s not much of a choice, is it, Commo— _ngh_ —” von Schönkopf’s lips close without warning around his cock, and his strong hands grip Yang’s ass to push him deeper, his fingers pulling the plump cheeks apart to expose Yang’s tender pink cleft. Yang throws his head back in ecstasy as von Schönkopf tortures him with both his hands and his mouth, dragging the rough pads of his fingers back and forth across Yang’s entrance, but never entering. 

Flushed deeply across his cheeks and throat, Yang pants softly, “Please—please, Schönkopf, _ngh_ , please—”

“Please _what_ , Admiral?” von Schönkopf pulls off his cock to say, though his fingers continue to tease at Yang’s entrance, preventing him from forming any sort of coherent thought. Yang can only continue to slur a mixture of half-gasped pleas and the broken syllables of von Schönkopf’s name, all rational faculties overtaken by the swelling _need_ blossoming in his lower belly. His blood is pounding in his ears, and the fact that he’s unable to see what von Schönkopf looks like right now is driving his imagination off the rails—in his mind’s eye von Schönkopf is kneeling before Yang with his lids heavy, looking up at Yang through thick eyelashes, his lips shiny with spit, Yang’s own erection glistening with it as well; von Schönkopf is licking away the precum dribbling from Yang’s slit, his long fingers teasing the patch of skin behind Yang’s balls as he sucks Yang off mercilessly, his tongue sliding up the shaft and rasping against the sensitive head of his cock.

Yang loses his breath for a few blinding white seconds, and when he finally gets his voice back it’s been reduced to barely more than a tortured rasp.

“Schönkopf— _Walter_ —please—”

Von Schönkopf releases Yang’s cock with a lewd, wet _pop_ and stands—Yang can feel von Schönkopf shifting around so he’s behind him now, his body radiating heat against Yang’s bare ass, one hand gripping Yang’s hip possessively. “That’s enough of that for you then, Admiral—wouldn’t want you to come before we even get started, would we? Let’s loosen you up here instead,” he says softly, lips brushing against the shell of Yang’s ear while the fingers of his other hand, cold and slick with lube, are already sliding into Yang’s ass.

“ _Ah_ —Schönkopf, you—”

Von Schönkopf merely chuckles in his ear. “I find carrying a small bottle in my pocket is _very_ handy when we’re out in space, Admiral.” Yang doesn’t even have the capacity to snark at him, not when von Schönkopf is probing around inside him with two fingers to find his prostate. 

He’s successful after a while—Yang arches his back beautifully as von Schönkopf massages the spot almost lazily, cycling his fingertips against it in pulsating waves of pleasure that rock dangerously against Yang’s self-control, threatening to capsize it at any point. 

“How does it feel, Admiral?”

“Good,” Yang chokes, “Schönkopf, _more_ —”

“Yes, _sir_.” Von Schönkopf obliges, the address made almost obscene by the way it rolls off his tongue; the hand not inside Yang plays with his sensitive chest, von Schönkopf’s thumbnail scraping across his nipple again and again until he’s reduced to begging for mercy. 

But von Schönkopf takes no pity on him at all as he pulls out his fingers and lines his erection up against Yang’s spread ass; all Yang’s feverish mind can think about is wildly inappropriate naval metaphors involving _docking_ and _clamping_ as the head of von Schönkopf’s cock broaches Yang’s entrance and slowly, torturously fills up his tight passage. Yang struggles, low keening notes escaping from his throat as von Schönkopf braces him against the metal railing of the bridge with the weight of his hips and a knee in between Yang’s legs, continuing to push in relentlessly. 

Sweat or tears—Yang honestly can’t tell which at this point—have darkened the cravat over his eyes, and his legs are trembling furiously, threatening to give way at any point. His entrance is seizing up against the intrusion, the tight ring of muscle clenching hard around von Schönkopf’s considerable girth, and von Schönkopf smooths his hair down soothingly with one hand, the thumb of the other stroking against the soft curve of Yang’s waist. 

“Try and relax, Admiral.” 

Yang emits only a choked sob in reply, too weak to do anything else. 

Though Yang has one hand over his mouth in a desperate attempt to keep his voice from spilling out as von Schönkopf fucks him, his muffled moans still sound unusually loud in the stifling silence of the empty bridge. Von Schönkopf continues to rock his hips forward, maintaining that unrelenting rhythm that neither gives Yang respite nor permits him to tip over the edge, and the unfulfilled buildup of tension is making his head spin. 

Von Schönkopf declares that he is _tight_ and _wet_ and _hot_ against his ear again and again, his voice shimmering in Yang’s mind like a heat haze; every time von Schönkopf pronounces him _Admiral_ he injects all sorts of lewd insinuation into the title; reverent and indecent: veneration and insubordination mixed together in the same breath. 

When Yang finally comes it is in a guttering, shaking, psychedelic kind of high, von Schönkopf buried deep within him, and though his eyes are shut tight with pleasure he still sees stars, stars brighter than any he’s ever seen. 

* * *

Warm lube, mixed with von Schönkopf’s fluids, is starting to slide down Yang’s inner thigh, cooling and sticking to his skin. 

“Look what a mess you’ve made, Admiral.” Von Schönkopf still has the absolute _nerve_ to tell him off after all that. 

Yang grumbles, “You did, too.” 

“Most of it ended up inside you,” von Schönkopf points out, matter-of-factly, and the thought of it makes Yang shiver again. 

Von Schönkopf receives his discomfort in quiet amusement. “Let’s get you cleaned up first, Admiral.” 

Yang allows himself to be carried back to his room by von Schönkopf—after all, he thinks to himself, he’s _deserved_ it—and von Schönkopf washes him out with more care and tenderness than he’d thought possible. It’s with great restraint that the two manage to keep from going a second round in the showers, but after a fair bit of bustle, von Schönkopf’s got Yang tucked up beside him on Yang’s admittedly too-narrow bed. 

“I’m submitting a retrofit application for my cabin when we get home,” Yang mumbles, half asleep. Von Schönkopf is right—his exhaustion is catching up to him in leaps and bounds, and before he knows it he’s out cold, head pillowed on von Schönkopf’s shoulder. 

* * *

Nobody gives Yang any weird looks the next day, which gives him reason to suspect that von Schönkopf has been bluffing, after all. Yang corners him in a side hallway after lunch. 

Von Schönkopf’s smile is sleek and smug. “Oh, I was just bluffing—of course I didn’t turn the intercom on, Admiral.”

“Why, you—” Yang is secretly more relieved than he will let on. 

“But I went one better—” von Schönkopf pulls his phone out from his overcoat pocket— “And downloaded this from the ship’s black box just before the Captain returned to duty…” He waves his phone around infuriatingly just out of Yang’s reach.

Yang has the overwhelming urge to punch him in his stupidly handsome face. 

“Want me to press play?”

Yang finally loses all his pretense of calm. “ _Schönkopf_ —!”

* * *

A few weeks later, a strange rumour begins to spread within the 13th Fleet—word on the decks is that Commodore von Schönkopf’s the one who started that black market on the _Hyperion_ : where for a modest sum, one can get limited-time access to certain _materials_ of _considerable quality_. 

In other news, and completely unrelated to the matter at hand, the crew members of the _Hyperion_ have noticed, of late, that Admiral Yang now spends the bulk of his free time telling anyone who will listen that they should’ve just let von Schönkopf’s corpse rot at the Capture of Iserlohn. 

Nobody ever connects the two events, and nobody ever notices that from that day on, there’s a certain spot near the bridge railing of the _Hyperion_ that poor young Julian Mintz avoids like the plague. 

-fin-

**Author's Note:**

> i want to marry yang


End file.
